Requiem Mass: Their Beloved
by Sarah Crawford
Summary: Separately and in their own ways, Erik and Raoul mourn the loss of their beloved Christine. Based on the final scene of the ALW movie, but it has a bit of Leroux and Kay in there too. RC with EC hints.
1. With This Ring

A/N: I do not own or claim to own _The Phantom of the Opera_. These characters belong to Gaston Leroux and have been borrowed by Andrew Lloyd Webber and others, myself included. The words in this order on the page belong to me. The monkey music box belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber and the rose and the nightingale to Susan Kay. Many thanks to my readers. Please leave a review if you get the chance. After two years this story is finally complete.

**Requiem Mass: Their Beloved**

_**Paris 1919**_

**Chapter One**

**With this Ring**

**Told by Erik the Phantom of the Opera**

My vision was blinded by tears as I made my way slowly among the headstones. The tears of forty-nine lingering years held back by force, now came pouring down the uneven surface of my face, soaking the soft leather that covered it in my every waking hour. She was gone. It was difficult for me to admit it, but she was truly gone now. I could no longer entertain foolish dreams that she would one day return to me, for my beloved Christine had at last flown off to heaven to join the other angels. Although my angel had departed exactly two years ago, I had stubbornly refused to believe that she was actually gone. It was time now to face reality. And today, on the second anniversary of her death, I would visit her grave for the first time.

Ironically, the years since the evening when she left me had not seemed a long time as I observed my Christine from the shadows. The years were not toilsome. It was only in the past two years of reclusive delusion that I felt truly alone. Before that, my life did not seem at all lonely, because those years were forty-seven years of love.

The evening of my opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_ was a difficult one to say the least. Although for many years, until two years ago, it was the most heart-breaking night of my life, it was also the night when I learned the most important lesson that I think I shall ever learn. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was to truly love someone. Granted, I never knew the joys of experiencing Christine's love myself, yet when I saw her love for that young man—the love which allowed her to offer herself as a sacrifice, a bride to a creature like me for the freedom of her beloved—when I saw that love, I knew that she could only be happy with him. And from that moment on, I could only live to see her happy.

Forty-seven years I watched them together. The love of my life was in another man's arms, kissing him… caressing him… loving him. Yet in my heart I felt no pain. Christine was blissfully married to the one she adored, and her joy was all that seemed to matter. Her happiness was my happiness after that final night in my home, that night when she taught me how to love.

It seemed odd that I should be weeping so deeply, for I had not cried for my own agony in so long that it was nearly unthought-of to be doing so now. Oh, I had wept many times over those years, but not out of sorrow or pity for myself as I had done in the past. The days of bemoaning my own sorry fate had ended on the opening night of my opera. Since that earth-shattering night, I wept instead for Christine. Her sorrows were my sorrows and her burdens my burdens. When she was ill or unhappy and tears streaked the perfect features of her face, I wept as well. I could not bear the sight of my beloved in tears.

In a short time, my contemplations were momentarily silenced as I arrived at the grave. Above the grass-covered mound stood a large carved stone bearing a few words and a diminutive painting, a passable likeness to Christine completed by one of Paris's finest painters. My eyes swept over the ashen figure, taking in its every detail, coming to rest at last on the small portrait.

After a moment of studying it carefully I closed my eyes, unable to look upon the image a second longer. However, my efforts to block out that picture were far from successful. In my mind's eye, I watched as the pallid features of that painting changed gradually, transforming into the sweet form of my beloved Christine. She was standing beside me now, I was almost sure of it, so near that I could reach out and touch her if I dared. The sweet sound of her voice rang in my mind, filling my soul with glorious music.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not seem to blot that beautiful face from my memory, and after all of those years I had long since stopped all efforts to erase her from my mind and heart. Radiant blue eyes, perfectly colored cheeks, delicate features, and soft red lips, all appearing repeatedly to my tortured mind and beckoning to me. Yet, outside the haven of my dreams, those eyes sparkled with love for another, as they always had and always would.

Gradually, I forced my eyes to open, blinking away the tears that obscured my view. The figure of Christine, which I had seen so clearly in my foggy mind, had now faded, and I was left alone with only that cold, hard gravestone to behold.

A familiar silence encircled me, though the music of her voice played on in my thoughts. I had long since become accustomed to silence. Although it could be lonely at times, the stillness could also be most welcome. It was calming, consoling, shielding…. Silence was my friend. Through the silence I had learned to listen, to hear what others could not hear. And no matter how deep the silence, some sort of music always seemed to be playing in my mind… that is until Christine left. After her departure from this earth, the melodies of my imagination had gradually ceased. Little by little, they slipped away from me, and I knew that I was losing my sanity along with them. In two years' time, I seemed to have lost all inspiration for creating anything beautiful. Without Christine, my music had vanished. Until now. Now I felt quite near to her, and a new haunting melody echoed in my mind.

Closing my eyes, I began to hum softly. Music flowed from my very soul, and I allowed my new composition to take me back to the first evening that I had brought Christine to my home, when I had held her and sung to her….

"_Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation, darkness stirs and wakes imagination." I approached her slowly from the spot where I stood beside my organ. "Silently the senses abandon their defenses." Cautiously, I extended one hand to her, and just as warily, Christine took it and allowed me to help her out of the boat._

"_Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor." Our eyes locked, and she stepped nearer to me. "Grasp it, sense it—tremulous and tender." I motioned for her to follow me. She did with a willingness that sent my heart soaring. "Turn your face away from the garish light of day…" Cupping her little chin in one hand, I turned her head to face me, away from the cruel world that we had left behind. "Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light…"_

_I guided her on, passing the table that held my model of the opera stage. Christine glanced over it. She seemed both surprised and pleased to see the little doll of herself standing in the midst of the stage._

"_And listen to the music of the night." Her eyes turned back to me. Those sapphire spheres were filled with such a look of enchantment. "Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams! Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before!" Stepping quickly up to stand beside my organ once more, I watched as Christine obeyed my every instruction. Her lovely eyes fell shut, and together we lived in the reverie of our new world. "Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar! And you'll live as you've never lived before."_

_Once again we joined hands. And as our fingers entwined, I guided her to stand beside me. "Softly, deftly, music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you." Our faces were mere inches apart. My heart was pounding wildly, but I sung on, not wishing to break the spell, walking in small circles with her around the candle-lit room. "Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight—the darkness of the music of the night. Let your mind start a journey into a strange new world! Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before! Let your soul take you where you long to be! Only then"—I moved closer… closer…—"can you belong to me."_

_My hands caressed the sides of her face for a moment and then slipped slowly down her shoulders. "Floating, falling…" I turned Christine in my arms, "sweet intoxication!" With her back pressed to my body, my hands ran freely over exquisite form. "Touch me, trust me," I raised her hand to stroke my left cheek, "savor each sensation!"_

_Then, grasping Christine's hand between both of my hands, I led her to see my special surprise. "Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write—the power of the music of the night." Christine was standing before the red velvet curtains now, looking upon a life-sized, almost perfect image of herself wearing a wedding gown. I stood close behind her, smiling proudly at my work, hoping that it pleased her. At once I knew that I had shown it to her far too soon. She was not ready to discuss marriage. I was near enough that I could feel her body growing limp. A moment later, Christine fell back into my arms, her eyes rolling and then closing slowly. She had fainted._

"_You alone can make my song take flight…" I carried her to her room, the room that I had set up especially for her, the furniture collected from various props kept in the cellars. Laying her in the bed with greatest care, I smiled down at her peaceful countenance. She was frightened at the idea of marriage, but Christine was so young. I thought then that she surely loved me. It would only be a matter of time before we were man and wife. After all, I had given her my music. The urge to kiss her was exceedingly great, but I resisted it, and merely stroked her face with one gloved hand before standing and lowering the curtain around her bed with one final plea: "Help me make the music of the night."_

When that sweet memory had faded, I forced my eyes to open. I stood there for a long time, still as the vast stone statues that surrounded me, looking upon my beloved's grave in solemn silence. Gradually, my gaze moved to the inscription.

Christine

+1854-1917+

Contess de Chagny

Beloved wife and mother

Those dates were so definite, so final. Set in stone. A sharp pain surged throughout my chest as a fresh flood of tears seeped from my eyes. Christine was gone. All of my hopes and dreams were buried with her in the cold, hard earth. It was time to face reality. Yes, that was why I had come here in the first place, to say goodbye. When that was done, I could return to the Opera. No doubt, it would be my turn to go soon. I could not live on like this much longer. But before I died, I had to make my peace with Christine and her lover once and for all. I had held on to her memory and the longing that she would return to me for far too many years. I knew that it was time to let her go, to put away the hopes, dreams, and memories that had brightened my days for so long. They could never come true now.

My hand slipped momentarily within my cloak, and I withdrew a long-stemmed red rose. The flower was tied with a black ribbon like all of the others that I had given her. Kneeling beside the gravestone, I placed the single rose on its pallid surface. A weary sigh passed from my lips. I stood and looked down at the flower.

"Goodbye Christine…" My voice came out in a broken whisper. "Farewell my love… my sweet angel…. Here, let me play something for you. One last piece. You used to love when I would play for you."

I sat the black case on the ground and carefully removed my treasured violin. Then tucking the instrument beneath my chin, I began to play my last composition of any worth. I had written in shortly after Christine's death. The piece took me nearly a year to complete, and it was over two hours in length. It was her requiem mass, my own setting of the sacred Latin text, written in honor of my beloved. At first, I sang as I played, but after a few minutes the text was lost in the flow of my tears.

When I had finished playing, I was sobbing so fiercely that I could scarcely stand. Lowering my thin body to the ground, I threw my arms around the lifeless stone starring up at Christine's portrait thought tear-blurred eyes. I could feel my heartbeat becoming even more irregular than usual. Perhaps I was dying. Perhaps I would soon be out of pain.

My mind was wrench suddenly back to the present at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Wiping my eyes, I struggled to my feet, thrusting the violin back into its case. I held the object close to my heart, although I do not know why. Habit perhaps. The instrument was of no use to me now. My Christine was gone, my music was gone, and now I only wished for the release of death.

A quick look around the silent cemetery told me that there was an automobile at the gate, and I could never mistake that crest on the door. The Comte de Chagny had arrived to visit Christine's grave, the grave of his wife.

I glanced around swiftly for a place to hide, although I knew that I probably could not move quickly enough to conceal myself. Over the past two years, I had grown so thin that I could scarcely summon the strength to walk, let alone run. My music was dying, and I was dying with it, in mind and in body. I had deteriorated beyond all belief. Now more than ever, I looked like a living, rotting corpse.

With one last glance at the grave, I turned to go. I stopped quite suddenly as the sunlight glistened off something. My eyes were drawn to the ring on my finger. It was Christine's. It rightfully belonged to her. Chagny had given it to her as an engagement ring, and I had taken it, using it again as our wedding ring, though Christine and I were never formally married.

Tears welled in my eyes once more. I could still see the look in Christine's eyes when she returned this ring to me just before leaving with her young man. Her eyes had been filled with such pity, such love. I knew when she kissed me that her love for me was real, and I was reminded of that love again as she approached me with that ring. How easily I could have lost myself in her love, but that was not what was best for her. She could never have been happy buried alive with me beneath the earth, for she loved the boy as well. She loved him with a different kind of love. And so I let her go. Only, I held on to the ring that she gave me. I treasured it, imagining that it was a promise of her love and of her return. However, the ring was a symbol of a love that could never be. Now, I would return it to her, and with it I would release her memory.

"Goodbye Christine," I said again. My tone was still soft, but my tears had ceased to flow. "I cannot hold on to you forever. You are happy now, happier than ever before. I only hope that I can see you again… soon. But I will not think of that now. It is time to release those dreams. Our love was never meant to be. I am the nightingale and you are the delicate white rose." A faint smile appeared on my lips at the thought of the story that used to tell her. The bird of the night loved the gentle flower, but their love was an abhorrence to God. Two such species were never meant to be together. They were cursed, but out of their love sprung the red rose.

I bent and picked up the rose that I had placed on her grave, stroking its scarlet petals. Then I slipped the ring onto its stem, securing it with the long black ribbon. When that was done, I lay the flower once more on the rim of her gravestone.

"I love you, Christine," I told her softly. "With this ring, I let you go."


	2. Our Beloved

**Chapter Two**

**Our Beloved**

**Told by Raoul Comte de Chagny**

Tears. Always tears. Forever tears.

It seemed that I was destined to spend the rest of my days weeping. And it seemed that the only relief from my now empty life would be to drown in those tears.

As I left the auction, I allowed my mind to wander. It had all started in 1870. The happy years had flown by since then, until just before Christine's death.

When our brief tragedy began my parents had just begun to support the Opera Populaire. Being the only son of the Opera's most recent patrons, they thought it only fitting that I should attend the gala performance, and I conceded only too willingly. I could not have imagined then how greatly that evening would alter my life.

An announcement was made that the program was incorrect. The diva, La Carlotta, was ill and Mademoiselle Christine Daaé would be performing the lead in her stead. I knew that name all too well from many years before, and the same little girl who had charmed me with her sweet voice at the sea was singing before all of Paris. Although she only afforded me one glance in her final aria, my love-sick heart could not help but think that she was singing for me.

At the close of the performance, I rushed to her dressing room, fighting the crowds and refusing the managers' offer to introduce me to her. Christine remembered the boy who had fetched her favorite red scarf from the sea, and I was delighted. However, to my chagrin, she declined my invitation to dinner, saying that the Angel of Music was very strict with her. At first I thought that she was only teasing. Surely she could not believe that her father had sent a real angel down from heaven. She must have been speaking figuratively when she told me that she was visited by the Angel of Music. Oh, but how foolish I was.

When I returned to her dressing room, the door was locked. Christine did not answer and to double my pain I heard a man's voice inside. The following morning I received a note telling me not to attempt to see Christine again. It said that the "Angel of Music" had her under his wing. The managers denied that either of them had written that travesty of a letter. More notes were brought in, one to La Carlotta and another to Madame Giry, the latter telling us that Christine had returned. Giry would not allow anyone to see Christine, and so my questions remained unanswered. But of one thing I was sure, this "angel" who was called the Phantom of the Opera and Christine's "Angel of Music" were one and the same.

I watched the performance of Il Muto from Box Five, the Phantom's box, determined to thwart his plans. Something dreadful happened to La Carlotta in the performance, and she could not finish. Christine was called upon to continue the show after the ballet. The evening was disrupted once again when Joseph Buquet, a stagehand, was hung in the midst of the ballet.

I found myself back stage at once. Christine was safe but in a panic. She took my by the hand and practically dragged me to the rooftop, murmuring that she must run away. She seemed to see this ghost everywhere and imagined that he would kill me and she could never escape. I was hesitant to believe there was such a thing as the Phantom, even when I heard her story of his face in the darkness. It had to be a dream; such things did not happen in real life. Still, my Little Lotte took comfort in my arms and I vowed to take her away from her ghostly stalker.

After that evening on the rooftop, Christine finished her performance in Il Muto as the Countess without incident. The Phantom she so feared seemed to have disappeared. And after she had changed from her costume, we two went for a walk in the park. It was on that evening that Christine and I became engaged.

Everything seems to bring back memories of Christine. My mind was pulled from its drifting as I observed a young couple admiring a cluster of jewels in a shop window. And then they kissed. How often Christine and I had done just that. Their outing was so like our Sunday afternoon walks.

A fresh flood of tears forced its way to the corners of my eyes and came streaming down my face as I studied the little music box in my lap for at least the hundredth time since I had purchased it late that morning. I felt so pitiful crying like a child or a broken old man, yet I could not seem to look upon the little trinket with dry eyes. Christine had spoken of it often and with such fondness. The figure had belonged to _him_.

The man at the auction had said that it still played. With trembling hands I turned the key. A familiar melody drifted around me in the carriage, taking my mind on a journey once again.

_Masquerade, paper faces on parade. Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you! Masquerade, every face a different shade. Masquerade, look around there's another mask behind you…_

The Opera's annual masquerade ball ended our three months of peace. Even after those blissful months, Christine would not allow me to make a public announcement of our engagement. It was to stay a secret, and still she was afraid. I only hoped that I could understand in time as she told me I would. I came to understand gradually, beginning that night.

The ball was in full swing when the Phantom appeared at the peak of the grand staircase, dressed as The Red Death. I charged off to acquire my sword, fearing that I would return too late. Upon my return, I found the shade in red standing only a whisper away from Christine, looking down at her with an expression that I could not, and did not want to, define. The sickeningly tender moment was broken when the monster saw my ring hanging at Christine's breast. In his furry he grasped the ring, breaking the chain, saying that she belonged to him. And then he disappeared in a burst of flame.

He would not escape from me so easily. There was a hole in the floor that remained open only long enough for me to plunge in after him. That hole was a room full of whirling mirrors. Flashing images of the Phantom appeared before me, and I swung my sword at them frantically, missing again and again. Then a noose was flung at me and a hand was on my shoulder, pulling me to safely.

The firm but gentle grip belonged to Madame Giry. She tried to leave me with no explanation, but I begged her to tell me all that she knew. The ballet mistress took me to her dressing room and told me of a trip she had taken to a gypsy fair as a young ballerina. There she and her fellow dancers saw a boy being displayed as "The Devil's Child." A man beat him, removed the bag that was covering his head, and kicked aside the toy that he was playing with, a monkey with tiny cymbals. The other girls laughed, but Giry had pity on the deformed creature. She watched the boy pull the covering over his head as soon as he could. When the tent was nearly empty the boy strangled his master. Young Giry could not bear to leave him there, and told me that she helped him to escape, hiding him in the Opera House.

"I hid him from the world and its cruelties," she had said. "He has known nothing else of life since then, except his opera house. It was his playground and now is an artistic domain. He's a genius. He's an architect and designer; he's a composer and a musician… a genius, Monsieur."

But even Madame Giry had to agree that genius had turned to madness.

After that night no one could convince me to leave Christine's side. I was sure that if she was left alone the monster would come for her again. Even as she slept, I sat guard at the dormitory door. She did not warn me of her early morning visit to the cemetery. I awoke to some commotion and arrived at the stables in time to see Christine in the disappearing carriage. The driver she had paid had been knocked unconscious, and when he revived, he told me they had gone to the cemetery. I followed, spurring my horse on until I arrived at the place where Christine's father was buried.

There I found Christine walking trance-like up the steps to the Daaé mausoleum. A duel ensued when the Phantom leapt down upon me. His skills were in trickery and not in fencing, and our fight ended with the monster on the ground at my blade. I only wished to end his wretched life and free Christine, but she would not have her freedom at the cost of his life. She begged me to stop, not to end it like that. I relented, unwilling to deny her. We rode off together, leaving the Phantom alone, angry and beastlike. Another lesson was learned that day of Christine's strange bond with that man. It was a bond of pity and something else that I did not wish to consider.

The next few days were spent in planning. The managers agreed to put on the Phantom's opera, which he had brought to the masked ball. Christine was to play the lead. He would surly come then, and my men would be ready. I was consumed by my plan and would not be moved by Christine's fears. Could she not see that this was the only way to end her captivity? While this man lived he would haunt her forever. Christine was confused, struggling with herself. She did not want to betray her former teacher or worse yet to fall into his clutches. But this was our only chance. Her performance was our only hope and prayer.

My memories of that fateful night are only a blur. Brief images. Christine standing on the stage, staring up at me in Box Five, hanging on my nod of encouragement. The Phantom taking over the role of Don Juan. Their passionate love duet. The horror in Christine's eyes, and then the peace as he held her in his arms. And then her little hand removing his mask and the two disappearing through a trapdoor into the depths of the Opera.

The chandelier crashed; I remember that well. A fire began, taking the red and gold grandeur that was the Opera in its ravenous flames. In the fleeing crowd I managed somehow to find Madame Giry. She guided me into the cellars, telling me which way to go and then leaving me on the stairs. I fell into a trap but soon escaped.

When at last I found the Phantom's lair he clutched at Christine with madness in his eyes, then let me in. The gate came slamming down behind me, and before I could think there was a rope around my neck. As he gave Christine that terrible "choice" I saw the error of my ways. My plans were all for nothing if Christine were to be trapped with the creature forever. "Say you love him and my life is over!" I cried. "Either way you choose he has to win. Why make her lie to you to save me?"

But she did not have to lie. Slowly, Christine waded toward the Phantom. She took his malformed lips in pity, and yes, a kind of love. That kiss was a revelation, and our saving grace; for the Phantom released Christine and me together. Christine returned briefly to give him our ring, a kind of token to remember her by, she told me. To her credit, Christine looked back only once, and then it was over.

And yet it was not over. The shadow that was her Angel of Music stayed with us. His presence was in her dreams. Christine often awoke from nightmares of her time with her nameless captor. On one such occasion I told her the story that Madame Giry had told me. It was then that she first told me of the monkey music box with its cymbals, so like the one he had as a boy at the fair. I heard of that little figure again and again throughout the years. It haunted her as _he_ did. The first time he kidnapped her, it had been there to wake her with its song, and when she left him with the ring he had been studying the music box. She often spoke of it when she was ill, and she was frequently ill in those last days. The final illness that took her from me was by far the most severe. I knew that I should be grateful that she was no longer suffering.

My mind was drawn back to the present as we arrived at the graveyard. The nurse and my driver helped me out of the horseless carriage and into my chair. As the towering iron gates groaned open I imagined that I heard the fait sound of Daddy Daaé playing on his violin. I even thought that I could hear Christine singing to the melody. The music was gone as suddenly as it had begun. I shook my head slowly, knowing that my mind was playing tricks on me.

My thoughts turned to my gift for Christine. In the past I had brought her roses, but this time I had a special present for my wife. The roses had always been pink, for Christine had told me long ago that she could not bear to look at another red rose. But this little monkey was one memory of _him_ that would not disturb her.

When at last we arrived at her resting place, I struggled to stand. Distant church bells tolled out the hour. The fall leaves danced at my feet in stark contrast to my somber form. Although Christine had seen me in this condition for nearly three and a half years, I would not appear before my beloved's grave as an ailing old man. No, I would walk on my own two feet. She must remember me as I was in our happier days.

A fleeting smile came to my lips as I gazed upon her portrait. So many memories. Christine had given me a lifetime of happiness, and I would be grateful to her forever. One love one lifetime…

I sighed, halting the flood of wonderful memories before they could come. Those days were over. Cautiously, I placed the little music box at the foot of Christine's grave without a word. No words were needed now. She would understand.

My gaze was drawn by a bit of color to the left side of the stone base. A sharp breath flooded my lungs. There lay another gift, a red rose tied with a black ribbon. I scanned the abandoned graveyard, finding no sign of the other who loved her.

A second glance at the grave revealed a shining ring held to the rose by that ebony ribbon.

It had been our ring. I thought of taking it but did not. Instead I stepped shakily back to my chair, still gazing at the gift _he_ had left. The music I had heard upon entering the cemetery, and now this… They could only mean one thing to me.

When Christine and I were married her singing stopped. She did not open her lips in song on the stage, at parties, or even at home. It clearly pained her to give up her music, and I missed the sweet voice that first won my heart. Nevertheless our silent agreement was necessary. When she sang she was his. When she sang, _she gave him her soul_.

Christine was my wife in every way on this earth, but there were two things, two parts of her that I could never own: her music and her soul. I have heard it said that the bond of marriage does not exist in heaven; being a practicing Catholic, I cannot deny the truth of that statement, as it is clearly written in the Holy book. Yes, I would see her again, but never as my wife. And yet, somehow I had no doubt that her bond with _him_ was beyond such rules. No sin he had committed could keep him from heaven now that she was there. There was no denying it now. Now she was in heaven singing, and that rose could only mean one thing: he was coming to join her.

But then, I had long since come to accept the fact that Christine was not mine alone. She would forever be our beloved.


	3. Epilogue

**Epilogue Part I**

**Told by Erik**

A single tear trickled down the unruined side of my face as I emerged from my place of hiding and watched the automobile disappear over the hill. _Farewell Comte. Someday I should like to thank you for caring for our dear Christine, for giving her so much love. But I doubt that I shall ever have such an opportunity._ And yet somehow, I knew that he understood. There was no more hatred between us, and there had not been for quite some time. He was her protector. I could no more hate the other man who loved Christine than I could abhor Christine herself.

A faint breeze stirred the leaves at my feet, sending them dancing toward the gravestone that stood above Christine's body. It was over now. I had said my goodbye and it was time to go home. I sighed heavily, and then with labored steps prepared to leave. But I would not be allowed the bliss of seclusion as I died. I would not meet death alone in the darkness beneath the opera.

Even as my heart had let my beloved go, my legs rebelled, giving way beneath me. With a cry I crumpled to the ground. I tried in vain to drag myself back to the carriage that had taken me there. The horse stamped his feet impatiently, but I had not the strength to crawl out of the graveyard, let alone to pull myself up into the empty driver's seat. My fists gave a few angry strikes at the ground and then I was still except for my heavy breathing. It was useless.

For what seemed to be a long time I remained in that position. I do not know how long; it could have been hours, it could have been mere minutes. Time had no meaning anymore. When I regained a bit of strength I began to move toward my new goal. Burning tears left their trails down my face as I heaved my stubborn body toward the foot of Christine's grave. The process was long and painful. My fingers were bleeding, leaving trails of red in the brown and golden leaves.

Finally I arrived. The last thing that I heard was the playing of a familiar song, _Masquerade_. The little monkey's cymbals clanged in time to the tune. And then I was plunged into blissful unconsciousness.

When I awoke again night had fallen. It was a long, bitterly cold night. The wind whipped unmercifully around the headstones and my skeletal cloak-clad form, a form that did not seem out of place in a churchyard, for it looked as though it belonged among the dead. Sleet began to fall, harsh glacial balls of freezing rain, numerous and larger than normal. I could not move and so I, along with the gravestones, was covered in a blanket that gave no warmth. I wept, and my tears froze upon my skin. Desperately, I burrowed closer to Christine's gravestone in hopes of gaining some shelter, but there was none to be found.

By some singular mercy I slept a while. My sleep was flooded with torturous dreams of Christine, but I could not feel the icy weather and for that I was grateful. Again and again I saw my beloved standing there, and I would run towards her only to be meant with cold, unyielding stone. I awoke once more to find that the sleet had dwindled to a gentle shower. But where was I? Disoriented, I placed one hand to my throbbing head as I took in the scene around me. Gigantic stone figures loomed above me. In every direction that my eyes darted I saw the same thing: the ashen forms of stone angels.

I felt myself reeling even as I lay on the ground. The figures seemed to live, to breathe, and to watch me. My terrified eyes fell upon Christine's portrait once more. Somewhere in the back of my frenzied mind I knew where I was, but the same cold stone of my dreams was before me, beneath my grasp. This was cruelty of the worst kind, to be so near to my Christine and yet unable to reach out and hold her. I was bound to her now; it was she who held my chains. My soul and even my broken body would not allow me to give her up and leave, not even to die. Never would I leave her again. Oh, but surely I would not see her again! When I passed from this earth I could not go to heaven where Christine unquestionably must be. That would be the worst of all, a punishment I more than deserved, to wander in darkness forever separated from Christine. No hell-fire could be more terrible than that.

The graven angels seemed to be closing in on me now. I crouched at the foot of Christine's grave, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as possible and clenching my hands to my chest in a gesture of supplication, willing it all to go away. And there, in the muddled delirium of my intense grief, I cried out to my Maker. For the first time in my life I spoke to Him with no trace of anger:

"Oh God, please do not separate me from Christine! Please. She needs me…. I need her! They say that you are merciful. Show mercy to this pitiful creature now. I have lived a lifetime of hell with this hideous face that you molded. Is not that enough? Help me! All of my years at the Opera I have ruled, manipulated, and dominated, but now I am powerless to see my love even once more. I have been an appalling excuse for a man, a murderer and a thief. No priest would hear my confession with this face, and even if he would, this demon could not set foot in a church. There is no deadly sin that I have not committed. But long ago Christine told me that I was not alone, and I believed her. If you are truly out there, if you are truly merciful, forgive me. I want to be in heaven where there is music and peace. Take me home."

Gazing toward the heavens, I thought for a moment that I saw something in the clouds. The figures where faint and ethereal, wispy as the clouds that surrounded them, but I was almost certain that I had seen an angel and dear Madame Giry. Beside them stood a man with a violin whom I recognized to be Christine's father, Gustave Daaé. And there, pushing her way to the front of the little crowd, was Christine. _Oh Christine!_ The image was gone as quickly as it had come. I shook my head in a futile attempt to clear it of such nonsense, but in my heart I hoped that I had not imagined the figures. Then wearily I closed my eyes, welcoming the comforts of death and the hope of a new life with my Christine.

**Epilogue Part II**

**Told by Raoul**

The corners of my lips turned up in a sad smile as I read the brief note. I had been correct in my suspicions. The morning following my visit to Christine's grave I received an urgent message from the groundskeeper of the graveyard. It seems that a body had been found huddled at the base of my wife's grave. Such news would have been a shock to most husbands, but the idea did not disconcert me. I had known that he would be coming.

And so it was on that damp morning that I returned to the cemetery yet again, accompanied by my eldest son, Christophe Philippe. His presence was a great comfort to me. _He_ had Christine now in death as I had her in life; there was no doubt of it. But at least she had left me our children. The last days of my life would not be spent alone.

The nervous groundskeeper meant us at the gate and guided us to the all too familiar site. The disheveled shell of a man that I saw before me was hardly recognizable, save for the mask. His body was broken, painfully thin, and soaked from the night's rain. There was no bitterness left in my heart for him now, and so we buried him beside my wife in an unmarked grave. He was on her left, and someday I would take my place at her right. I knew deep within my heart that Christine would have wished it so. It was where he belonged.

_Fine_


End file.
